Philemon went on remorselessly. “You’ve only got one year of experience more than Caris has. And your father, the bishop – rest his soul – will count against you. After all, bishops aren’t supposed to have children.”
She flushed. “Priors aren’t supposed to have cats.”
However, Elizabeth took it coolly. “So, did you ask me here to tell me I can’t win?” She turned to Godwyn. “It’s not like you to cook with costly ginger just for the pleasure of it.”
“You’re quite right,” said Godwyn. “We want you to become prioress, and we’re going to do everything we can to help you.”
Philemon said: “And we’re going to start by taking a realistic look at your prospects. Caris is liked by everyone – nuns, monks, merchants and nobility. The job she does is a great advantage to her. Most of the monks and nuns, and hundreds of townspeople, have come to the hospital with ailments and been helped by her. By contrast, they rarely see you. You’re the treasurer, thought of as cold and calculating.”
“I appreciate your frankness,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I should give up now.”
Godwyn could not tell whether she was being ironic.
“You can’t win,” Philemon said. “But she can lose.”
“Don’t be enigmatic, it’s tiresome,” Elizabeth snapped. “Just tell me in plain words what you’re getting at.”
I can see why she’s not popular, Godwyn thought.
Philemon pretended not to notice her tone. “Your task in the next few weeks is to destroy Caris,” he said. “You have to transform her, in the nuns’ minds, from a likeable, hard-working, compassionate sister into a monster.”
A glint of eagerness came into Elizabeth’s eye. “Is that possible?”
“With our help, yes.”
“Go on.”
“Is she still ordering nuns to wear linen masks in the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“And wash their hands?”
“Yes.”
“There is no basis for these practices in Galen or any other medical authority, and certainly none in the Bible. It seems a mere superstition.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Apparently the Italian doctors believe the plague spreads through the air. You catch it by looking at sick people, or touching them, or breathing their breath. I don’t see how-”
“And where did the Italians get this idea?”
“Perhaps just by observing patients.”
“I have heard Merthin say that the Italian doctors are the best – except for the Arabs.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve heard that.”
“So this whole business of wearing masks probably comes from the Muslims.”
“Possibly.”
“In other words, it is a heathen practice.”
“I suppose so.”
Philemon sat back, as if he had proved a point.
Elizabeth did not yet get it. “So we outmanoeuvre Caris by saying she has introduced a heathen superstition into the nunnery?”
“Not exactly,” said Philemon with a crafty smile. “We say she is practising witchcraft.”
She saw it then. “Of course! I had almost forgotten about that.”
“You testified against her at the trial!”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I would think you’d never forget that your enemy was once accused of such a crime,” Philemon said.
Philemon himself certainly never forgot such things, Godwyn reflected. Knowing people’s weaknesses, and exploiting them shamelessly, was his speciality. Godwyn sometimes felt guilty about the sheer depth of Philemon’s malice. But that malice was so useful to Godwyn that he always suppressed his misgivings. Who else could have dreamed up this way of poisoning the nuns’ minds against the beloved Caris?
A novice brought apples and cheese, and Philemon poured more wine. Elizabeth said: “All right, this makes sense. Have you thought about how, in detail, we should bring this up?”
“It’s important to prepare the ground,” Philemon said. “You should never make an accusation such as this formally until it’s already believed by large numbers of people.”
Philemon was very good at this, Godwyn thought admiringly.
Elizabeth said: “And how do you suggest we achieve that?”
“Actions are better than words. Refuse to wear the mask yourself. When asked, shrug and say quietly that you have heard it is a Muslim practice, and you prefer Christian means of protection. Encourage your friends to refuse the mask, as a sign of support for you. Don’t wash your hands too often, either. When you notice people following Caris’s precepts, frown disapprovingly – but say nothing.”
Godwyn nodded agreement. Philemon’s slyness sometimes approached the level of genius.
“Should we not even mention heresy?”
“Talk about it as much as you like, without connecting it directly to Caris. Say that you’ve heard of a heretic being executed in another city, or a devil worshipper who succeeded in depraving an entire nunnery, perhaps in France.”
“I wouldn’t wish to say anything that was not true,” Elizabeth said stiffly.
Philemon sometimes forgot that not everyone was as unscrupulous as he. Godwyn said hastily: “Of course not – Philemon just means that you should repeat such stories if and when you hear them, to remind the nuns of the ever-present danger.”
“Very good.” The bell rang for Nones, and Elizabeth stood up. “I mustn’t miss the service. I don’t want someone to notice my absence and guess that I’ve been here.”
“Quite right,” said Godwyn. “Anyway, we’ve agreed our plan.”
She nodded. “No masks.”
Godwyn could see that she was nursing a doubt. He said: “You don’t imagine they’re effective, do you?”
“No,” she replied. “No, of course not. How could they be?”
“Exactly.”
“Thank you for dinner.” She went out.
That had gone well, Godwyn reflected, but he was still worried. He said anxiously to Philemon: “Elizabeth on her own might not be able to convince people that Caris is still a witch.”
“I agree. We may need to help with the process.”
“Perhaps with a sermon?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll speak about the plague from the cathedral pulpit.”
Philemon looked thoughtful. “It might be dangerous to attack Caris directly. That could backfire.”
Godwyn agreed. If there were open strife between himself and Caris, the townspeople would probably support her. “I won’t mention her name.”
“Just sow the seeds of doubt, and let people come to their own conclusions.”
“I’ll blame heresy, devil worship and heathenish practices.”
Godwyn’s mother, Petranilla, came in. She was very stooped, and walked with two canes, but her large head still jutted forward assertively on her bony shoulders. “How did that go?” she said. She had urged Godwyn to attack Caris, and had approved Philemon’s plan.
“Elizabeth will do exactly as we wish,” Godwyn said, feeling pleased. He enjoyed giving her good news.
“Good. Now I want to talk to you about something else.” She turned to Philemon. “We won’t need you.”
For a moment, Philemon looked hurt, like a child unexpectedly smacked. Brutally abrasive himself, he was easily wounded. However, he recovered quickly, and pretended to be untroubled and even a bit amused by her high-handedness. “Of course, madam,” he said with exaggerated deference.
Godwyn said to him: “Take charge of Nones for me, will you?”
“Very good.”
When he had gone, Petranilla sat at the big table and said: “I know it was me who urged you to foster that young man’s talents, but I have to admit that nowadays he makes my flesh crawl.”
“He’s more useful than ever.”
“You can never really trust a ruthless man. If he will betray others, why should he not betray you?”
“I’ll remember that,” Godwyn said, though he felt he was now so bound up with Philemon that it was hard to imagine operating without him. However, he did not want to tell his mother that. Changing the subject, he said: “Would you like a cup of wine?”
She shook her head. “I’m already too liable to fall over. Sit down and listen to me.”
“Very well, Mother.” He sat beside her at the table.
“I want you to leave Kingsbridge before this plague gets much worse.”
“I can’t do that. But you could go-”
“I don’t matter! I’m going to die soon anyway.”
The thought filled Godwyn with panic. “Don’t say that!”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m sixty years old. Look at me – I can’t even stand upright. It’s time for me to go. But you’re only forty-two – and you’ve got so much ahead! You could be bishop, archbishop, even cardinal.”
As always, her limitless ambition for him made Godwyn feel dizzy. Was he really capable of becoming a cardinal? Or was it just a mother’s blindness? He did not really know.
“I don’t want you to die of the plague before you’ve achieved your destiny,” she finished.
“Mother, you’re not going to die.”
“Forget about me!” she said angrily.
“I can’t leave town. I have to make sure the nuns don’t make Caris prioress.”
“Get them to hold the election quickly. Failing that, get out anyway and leave the election in God’s hands.”
He was terrified of the plague, but he feared failure too. “I could lose everything if they elect Caris!”
Her voice softened. “Godwyn, listen to me. I have only one child, and that’s you. I can’t bear to lose you.”
Her sudden change of tone shocked him into silence.
She went on: “Please, I beg you, get out of this city and go to some place where the plague can’t reach you.”
He had never known her to plead. It was unnerving. He felt scared. Just to stop her, he said: “Let me think about it.”
“This plague,” she said. “It’s like a wolf in the forest. When you see it, you don’t think – you run.”
*
Godwyn gave the sermon on the Sunday before Christmas.
It was a dry day with high pale cloud roofing the cold vault of heaven. The central tower of the cathedral was covered by a bird’s nest of rope-and-branch scaffolding where Elfric was demolishing it from the top down. At the market on the green, shivering traders did desultory business with a few preoccupied customers. Beyond the market, the frozen grass of the cemetery was quilted with the brown rectangles of more than a hundred fresh graves.
But the church was full. The frost that Godwyn had noticed on the inside walls during Prime had been dispersed by the warmth of thousands of bodies by the time he entered the church to perform the Christmas service. They huddled in their heavy earth-coloured coats and cloaks, looking like cattle in a pen. They had come because of the plague, he knew. The congregation of thousands of townspeople had been augmented by hundreds more from the surrounding countryside, all in search of God’s protection against an illness that had already struck at least one family in every city street and rural village. Godwyn sympathized. Even he had been praying more fervently lately.
Normally only the people at the front solemnly followed the service. Those behind chatted to their friends and neighbours, and the youngsters amused themselves at the back. But today there was little noise from the nave. All heads were turned to the monks and nuns, watching with unusual attention as they performed the rituals. The crowd murmured the responses scrupulously, desperate to acquire what defensive holiness they could. Godwyn studied their faces, reading their expressions. What he saw there was dread. Like him, they were wondering fearfully who would be the next to sneeze, or suffer a nosebleed, or come out in a rash of purple-black spots.
Right at the front he could see Earl William with his wife Philippa, their two grown sons, Roland and Richard, and their much younger daughter, Odila, who was fourteen. William ruled the county in the same style as his father, Roland, with order and justice and a firm hand that was occasionally cruel. He looked worried: an outbreak of plague in his earldom was something he could not control, no matter how harsh he was. Philippa had her arm around the young girl, as if to protect her.
Next to them was Sir Ralph, lord of Tench. Ralph had never been any good at hiding his feelings, and now he looked terrified. His child-wife was carrying a tiny baby boy. Godwyn had recently christened the child Gerald, after its grandfather, who stood nearby with the grandmother, Maud.
Godwyn’s eye moved along the line to Ralph’s brother, Merthin. When Merthin had returned from Florence, Godwyn had hoped that Caris would renounce her vows and leave the nunnery. He thought she might be less of a nuisance as the mere wife of a citizen. But it had not happened. Merthin was holding the hand of his little Italian daughter. Next to them was Bessie from the Bell inn. Bessie’s father, Paul Bell, had succumbed to the plague already.
Not far away was the family Merthin had spurned: Elfric, with his daughter Griselda, the little boy they had named Merthin – now ten – and Harry Mason, the husband Griselda had wed after she gave up hope of the original Merthin. Next to Elfric was his second wife, Godwyn’s cousin Alice. Elfric kept looking up. He had built a temporary ceiling over the crossing while he tore down the tower, and he was either admiring his work or worrying about it.
Conspicuously absent was the bishop of Shiring, Henri of Mons. The bishop normally gave the sermon on Christmas Day. However, he had not come. So many clergy had died of the plague that the bishop was frantically busy visiting parishes and searching for replacements. There was already talk of easing the requirements for priests, and ordaining under-twenty-fives and even illegitimate men.
Godwyn stepped forward to speak. He had a delicate task. He needed to whip up fear and hatred of the most popular person in Kingsbridge. And he had to do it without mentioning her name, indeed without even letting people think he was hostile to her. They must turn on her with fury but, when they did, they had to believe it was their own idea, not his.
Not every service featured a sermon. Only at major solemnities, attended by large crowds, did he address the congregation, and then he did not always preach. Often there were announcements, messages from the archbishop or the king about national events – military victories, taxes, royal births and deaths. But today was special.
“What is sickness?” he said. The church was already quiet, but the congregation became very still. He had asked the question that was on everybody’s mind.
“Why does God send illnesses and plagues to torment and kill us?” He caught the eye of his mother, standing behind Elfric and Alice, and he was suddenly reminded of her forecast that she would die soon. For a moment he froze, paralysed with fear, unable to speak. The congregation shifted restlessly, waiting. Knowing he was losing their attention, he felt panicky, and that made his paralysis worse. Then the moment passed.
“Sickness is a punishment for sin,” he resumed. Over the years he had developed a preaching style. He was not a ranter, like Friar Murdo. He spoke in a more conversational manner, sounding like a reasonable man rather than a demagogue. He wondered how suitable that was for whipping up the kind of hatred he wanted them to feel. But Philemon said it made him sound more convincing.
“The plague is a special sickness, so we know God is inflicting a special punishment on us.” There was a low collective sound, between a murmur and a moan, from the crowd. This was what they wanted to hear. He was encouraged.
“We must ask ourselves what sins we have committed, to merit such punishment.” As he said this he noticed Madge Webber, standing alone. Last time she came to church she had had a husband and four children. He thought of making the point that she had enriched herself using dyes concocted by witchcraft, but he decided against that tactic. Madge was too well liked and respected.
“I say to you that God is punishing us for heresy. There are people in the world – in this town – even in this great cathedral today – who question the authority of God’s holy church and its ministers. They doubt that the sacrament turns bread into the true body of Christ; they deny the efficacy of masses for the dead; they claim that it is idolatry to pray before statues of the saints.” These were the usual heresies debated among student priests at Oxford. Few people in Kingsbridge cared about such arguments, and Godwyn saw disappointment and boredom on the faces in the crowd. He sensed he was losing them again, and he felt the panic rise. Desperately, he added: “There are people in this city who practise witchcraft.”
That got their attention. There was a collective gasp.
“We must be vigilant against false religion,” he said. “Remember that only God can cure sickness. Prayer, confession, communion, penance – these are the remedies sanctioned by Christianity.” He raised his voice a little. “All else is blasphemy!”
This was not clear enough, he decided. He needed to be more specific.
“For if God sends us a punishment, and we try to escape it, are we not defying His will? We may pray to Him to forgive us, and perhaps in his wisdom he will heal our sickness. But heretical cures will only make matters worse.” The audience was rapt, and he warmed up. “I warn you! Magic spells, appeals to the fairy folk, unchristian incantations, and especially heathen practices – all are witchcraft, all are forbidden by God’s holy church.”
His real audience today was the thirty-two nuns standing behind him in the choir of the church. So far only a few had registered their opposition to Caris, and their support for Elizabeth, by refusing to wear the mask against the plague. As things stood, Caris would easily win next week’s election. He needed to give the nuns the clear message that Caris’s medical ideas were heretical.
“Anyone who is guilty of such practices -” he paused for effect, leaning forward and staring at the congregation – “anyone in town -” he turned and looked behind him, at the monks and nuns in the choir. “- or even in the priory -” he turned back. “I say, anyone guilty of such practices should be shunned.”
He paused for effect.
“And may God have mercy on their souls.”
Paul Bell was buried three days before Christmas. All those who stood at his frosty graveside in the December cold were invited to the Bell to drink to his memory. His daughter, Bessie, now owned the place. She did not want to grieve alone, so she poured the tavern’s best ale generously. Lennie Fiddler played sad tunes on his five-stringed instrument, and the mourners became tearful and maudlin as they got drunker.
Merthin sat in the corner with Lolla. At yesterday’s market he had bought some sweet raisins from Corinth – an expensive luxury. He was sharing them with Lolla, teaching her numbers at the same time. He counted nine raisins for himself, but when he was counting out hers he missed every other number, saying: “One, three, five, seven, nine.”
“No!” she said. “That’s not right!” She was laughing, knowing that he was only teasing.
“But I counted nine each,” he protested.
“But you’ve got more!”
“Well, how did that happen?”
“You didn’t count them right, silly.”
“You’d better count them, then, and see if you can do better.”
Bessie sat with them. She was wearing her best dress, which was a bit tight. “Can I have some raisins?” she said.
Lolla said: “Yes, but don’t let Daddy count them.”
“Don’t worry,” Bessie said. “I know his tricks.”
“Here you are,” Merthin said to Bessie. “One, three, nine, thirteen – oh, thirteen is too many. I’d better take some away.” He took back three raisins. “Twelve, eleven, ten. There, now you’ve got ten raisins.”
Lolla thought this was hysterically funny. “But she’s only got one!” she said.
“Did I count them wrong again?”
“Yes!” She looked at Bessie. “We know his tricks.”
“You count them, then.”
The door opened, letting in a blast of icy air. Caris came in, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Merthin smiled: every time he saw her, he felt glad she was still alive.
Bessie looked at her warily, but spoke a welcome. “Hello, sister,” she said. “It’s kind of you to remember my father.”
Caris said: “I’m very sorry you have lost him. He was a good man.” She, too, was being formally polite. Merthin realized that these two women saw themselves as rivals for his affections. He did not know what he had done to deserve such devotion.
“Thank you,” Bessie said to Caris. “Will you have a cup of ale?”
“That’s very kind, but no. I need to speak to Merthin.”
Bessie looked at Lolla. “Shall we roast some nuts on the fire?”
“Yes, please!”
Bessie took Lolla away.
“They get on well together,” Caris said.
Merthin nodded. “Bessie has a warm heart, and no children of her own.”
Caris looked sad. “I have no children… but perhaps I haven’t got the warm heart.”
Merthin touched her hand. “I know better,” he said. “You have such a warm heart you have to take care of not just one or two children but dozens of people.”
“It’s kind of you to see it that way.”
“It’s true, that’s all. How are things at the hospital?”
“Unbearable. The place is full of people dying, and I can’t do anything for them except bury them.”
Merthin felt a surge of compassion. She was always so competent, so reliable, but the strain told on her, and she was willing to show it to him, if to no one else. “You look tired,” he said.
“I am, God knows.”
“I suppose you’re worrying about the election, too.”
“I came to ask for your help with that.”
Merthin hesitated. He was torn by contradictory feelings. Part of him wanted her to achieve her ambition and become prioress. But then would she ever be his wife? He had a shamefully selfish hope that she would lose the election and renounce her vows. All the same, he wanted to give her whatever help she asked for, just because he loved her. “All right,” he said.
“Godwyn’s sermon yesterday hurt me.”
“Will you never be rid of that old accusation of witchcraft? It’s so absurd!”
“People are stupid. The sermon had a big impact on the nuns.”
“As was intended, of course.”
“No doubt of it. Few of them believed Elizabeth when she said that my linen masks were heathenish. Only her close friends discarded the mask: Cressie, Elaine, Jeannie, Rosie and Simone. But when the others heard the message from the pulpit of the cathedral, it was different. The more impressionable sisters have all now discarded the mask. A few avoid making an obvious choice by never coming into the hospital. Only a handful still wear it: me and four nuns I’m close to.”
“I was afraid of this.”
“Now that Mother Cecilia, Mair and Old Julie are dead, there are only thirty-two nuns eligible to vote. Seventeen votes are all you need to win. Elizabeth originally had five sworn supporters. The sermon has given her eleven more. With her own vote, that makes seventeen. I have only five, and even if all the waverers came over to me, I would lose.”
Merthin felt angry on her behalf. It must be hurtful to be rejected like this after all she had done for the nunnery. “What can you do?”
“The bishop is my last hope. If he sets his face against Elizabeth, and announces that he will not ratify her election, some of her support may fall away, and I could have a chance.”
“How can you influence him?”
“I can’t, but you could – or, at least, the parish guild could.”
“I suppose so…”
“They have a meeting this evening. You’ll be there, I imagine.”
“Yes.”
“Think about it. Godwyn already has the town in a stranglehold. He’s close to Elizabeth – her family are tenants of the priory, and Godwyn has always been careful to favour them. If she becomes prioress, she will be as compliant as Elfric. Godwyn will have no opposition in or out of the priory. It will be the death of Kingsbridge.”
“That’s true, but whether the guildsmen will agree to intercede with the bishop…”
Suddenly she looked terribly disheartened. “Just try. If they turn you down, so be it.”
Her desperation touched him, and he wished he could be more optimistic. “I will, of course.”
“Thank you.” She stood up. “You must have conflicting feelings about this. Thank you for being a true friend.”
He smiled wryly. He wanted to be her husband, not her friend. But he would take what he could get.
She went out into the cold.
Merthin joined Bessie and Lolla at the fireside and sampled their roasted nuts, but he was preoccupied. Godwyn’s influence was malign, but all the same his power never ceased to grow. Why was that? Perhaps because he was an ambitious man with no conscience – a potent combination.
As darkness fell he put Lolla to bed and paid a neighbour’s daughter to watch her. Bessie left the barmaid, Sairy, in charge of the tavern. Wearing heavy cloaks, they walked up the main street to the guild hall for the midwinter meeting of the parish guild.
At the back of the long room there was a seasonal barrel of ale for the members. The merrymaking seemed to have a driven quality this Christmas, Merthin thought. They had been drinking hard at Paul Bell’s wake, and some of those people now followed Merthin in and filled their tankards again as eagerly as if they had not tasted ale for a week. Perhaps it took their minds off the plague.
Bessie was one of four people introduced as new members. The other three were eldest sons of leading merchants who had died. Godwyn, as overlord of the townspeople, must be enjoying a rise in his income from inheritance tax, Merthin realized.
When the routine business had been dealt with, Merthin raised the subject of the election of the new prioress.
“That’s none of our business,” Elfric said immediately.
“On the contrary, the result will affect commerce in this town for years to come, perhaps decades,” Merthin argued. “The prioress is one of the richest and most powerful people in Kingsbridge, and we ought to do what we can to get one who will do nothing to fetter trade.”
“But there’s nothing we can do – we have no vote.”
“We have influence. We could petition the bishop.”
“It’s never been done before.”
“That’s not much of an argument.”
Bill Watkin interrupted. “Who are the candidates?”
Merthin replied: “Sorry, I thought you’d know. Sister Caris and Sister -Elizabeth. I think we should support Caris.”
“Of course you do,” said Elfric. “And we all know why!”
There was a ripple of laughter. Everyone knew about the longstanding on-off love affair between Merthin and Caris.
Merthin smiled. “Go on, laugh – I don’t mind. Just remember that Caris grew up in the wool business and helped her father, so she understands the problems and challenges that merchants face – whereas her rival is the daughter of a bishop, and more likely to sympathize with the prior.”
Elfric was looking red in the face – partly because of the ale he had drunk, Merthin thought, but mainly through anger. “Why do you hate me, Merthin?” he said.
Merthin was surprised. “I thought it was the other way around.”
“You seduced my daughter, then refused to marry her. You tried to prevent my building the bridge. I thought we’d got rid of you, then you came back and humiliated me over the cracks in the bridge. You hadn’t been back more than a few days before you tried to get me ousted as alderman and replaced by your friend Mark. You even hinted that the cracks in the cathedral were my fault, although it was built before I was born. I repeat, why do you hate me?”
Merthin did not know what to say. How could Elfric not know what he had done to Merthin? But Merthin did not want to have this argument in front of the parish guild – it seemed childish. “I don’t hate you, Elfric. You were a cruel master when I was an apprentice, and you’re a slipshod builder, and you toady to Godwyn, but all the same I don’t hate you.”
One of the new members, Joseph Blacksmith, said: “Is this what you do at the parish guild – have stupid arguments?”
Merthin felt hard done by. It was not he who had introduced the personal note. But for him to say that would be seen as continuing a stupid argument. So he said nothing, and reflected that Elfric was ever sly.
“Joe’s right,” said Bill Watkin. “We didn’t come here to listen to Elfric and Merthin squabbling.”
Merthin was troubled by Bill’s willingness to put him and Elfric on the same level. Generally, the guildsmen liked him and felt mildly hostile to Elfric, since the dispute over the bridge cracks. Indeed, they would have ousted Elfric if Mark had not died. But something had changed.
Merthin said: “Can we return to the matter in hand, which is petitioning the bishop to favour Caris as prioress?”
“I’m against it,” Elfric said. “Prior Godwyn wants Elizabeth.”
A new voice spoke up. “I’m with Elfric. We don’t want to quarrel with the Father Prior.” It was Marcel Chandler, who had the contract to supply wax candles to the priory. Godwyn was his biggest customer. Merthin was not surprised.
However, the next speaker shocked him. It was Jeremiah Builder, who said: “I don’t think we should favour someone who has been accused of heresy.” He spat on the floor twice, left and right, and crossed himself.
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